Making Friends or More
by The Crownless Queen
Summary: Some time after Hermione turns ten, Pansy Parkinson moves into her street. It's the start of something unexpected, but beautiful.


Written for Hogwarts' Granger Danger Event - Hermione/Pansy, Friends to Lovers, the Writing Club - Television Show of the Month, Veronica Mars: (character) Hermione Granger (word) juxtaposition (object) dress and the Roald Dahl Day Event - Show room - Write about Pansy Parkinson.

 _Word count:_ 2317

 **Making Friends or More**

The first time they meet, Hermione dislikes Pansy Parkinson—the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl her parents tell her to make friends with—on sight.

"But why?" she asks, probably louder than she should, wondering why she can't just stay inside with one of her books like she usually would. "You know the other girls at school don't like me, Mum, Dad—can't I just stay here with you? I could be quiet, you wouldn't even notice I'm here."

Emma Granger looks at her daughter with pitying eyes as her husband bites back a smile. "No, Hermione," she says kindly, "you can't. You need to make real friends, to spend time with people outside your books. Go to the backyard, play swings with her—Pansy's parents came to talk to us about some grown-up stuff. Besides, you're not at school right now. I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun with her."

On the other side of the room, Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson look very stern, and Pansy, who stands in between them, looks like the opposite of fun. With her pretty, frilly dress, she looks like every stuck-up girl who's ever bullied Hermione in school—even if she does look uncomfortable in said dress.

Still, Hermione would bet that Pansy doesn't even like _books_.

"Please, Hermione," her mother continues, unaware of the way Hermione is now eyeing her playmate-to-be dubiously. "Do it for us? Just this once—and if it doesn't go well, you won't have to do it again, alright?"

"Alright," Hermione mumbles, raising her eyes to meet her mother's. She's only accepting because her mother looks worried for her, though.

Emma smiles proudly at her, patting Hermione on her hair once. "Go on, then," she says. "Show Pansy around."

Scowling a little—not too obviously, though, because that'd be bad manners—Hermione trots up to Pansy.

"Hi," she says, extending a hand. "I'm Hermione."

Pansy eyes her hand for what feels like forever, looking up to her father, then her mother, for either affirmation or permission before she shakes Hermione's hand, oddly solemn for a ten-year-old. "I'm Pansy," she says. She has a very nasal voice, but it is not entirely unpleasant to hear.

The adult move toward Hermione's father's office, the two children apparently already forgotten, and Hermione finds herself standing awkwardly in front of Pansy, still holding onto her hand.

She lets it go abruptly, cheeks flushing pink. "So…" she starts, "want to see our swing set?"

Pansy looks bored already. "Why not," she shrugs.

Hermione shivers a little as they exit into the backyard—Pansy's fine, obviously, since she never took off her coat, but Hermione had thought that her sweater would be enough. It's late September now, though, and even if the sun is shining high up in the sky, the air is rather cold.

Pansy, ignoring Hermione, cranes her neck to take in the full house and its surroundings. Her lips are pursed thinly, and for some reason that reminds Hermione of that old librarian at her school that nobody likes.

"You have a very quaint little house," Pansy says mildly, just as they reach the swing set—it's a very simple one, but Hermione loves it because her father built it himself, and just for her.

The odd thing is, she doesn't seem to be mean about it. In fact, she mostly looks bewildered by it, like she can't imagine how Hermione and her family all fit in there, or why they'd choose to be there. It makes her wonder how rich, exactly, these new friends of her parents are.

Hermione forces herself to thank Pansy, because that's just good manners.

Luckily, there are two swings on the set. Hermione takes the one on the right—the seat leans a little unevenly to the right, which always makes it more fun when Hermione decides to spin around instead of swing—and leaves the other one to Pansy, who gingerly sits on it.

Moments later, Hermione is leisurely kicking herself up, but Pansy hasn't moved, legs dangling motionlessly in the air.

"What's wrong? Don't you like swings?" Hermione asks, letting herself slow down a little, toes dragging against the soft earth.

Pansy shrugs stiffly. "Nothing's wrong."

"You know, if you don't like swinging, we can do something else—we only came here because my mother told me we should, but there's other things to do around the house." Or so Hermione imagines—she's never had a friend over to her house, and she's not a big fan of sports or games, so she doesn't exactly have much experience with this type of situation, but she's heard enough from the girls in her class to figure out _some_ things, if she has to.

Pansy stiffens even more, if possible. She looks purposefully away from Hermione, hands clenched tightly against the ropes at her sides.

"I don't know how this works," she admits, in a tone so quiet that at first, Hermione doesn't realize Pansy's spoken. "I've never—I've never been on a swing before." Pansy says it like it's a crime, eyes focused on her lap now with scaring intensity.

Hermione's mouth drops open in surprise, a move she regrets when Pansy immediately scowls, eyes narrowing in anger to hide the flush of embarrassment that rises up her neck.

"There's nothing wrong with that!" she hisses. "I've just been doing other stuff—I bet _you_ couldn't ride a horse!"

"You can ride a horse?" Hermione asks before she even realizes she's doing it, eyes wide with wonder. "My parents won't let me try until I'm at least sixteen," she complains, pouting a little.

Pansy straightens, proud smirk playing on her lips. "I can, yes."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Well, then maybe one day you can teach me—and I'll teach you how to swing," she says, determined. "You'll see, it's really not that hard: you just have to gather some momentum at first by leaning back, and then when you go forward you kick your legs up."

She demonstrates it slowly as she speaks, and amazingly enough, Pansy doesn't even complain once before she starts to jerkily mimic Hermione's moves.

Pansy's brow is still furrowed in concentration when, almost an hour later, their parents come to check in on them, but she's also managed to reach almost as high as Hermione can. She's smiling, her tongue poking out at the right corner of her mouth, and like this, she looks kind of pretty.

Not the fairytale princess kind of pretty, sure, but in Hermione's mind that's overrated anyway. No, Pansy's pretty like Hermione's books are pretty: two parts fascinating and one part bubbly excitement in her stomach as she tries to guess at what comes next, the odd juxtaposition of expecting an action and then having something entirely different happen instead.

The fluttery feeling in her chest is slightly different than what she's used to, but, well, Pansy isn't a book—Hermione can't expect Pansy to make her heart beat as wildly as some of her stories do.

It's not until Pansy accepts one of her parents' baked treats—sugarless cookies—and stares at it and Hermione's parents with betrayal, though, that Hermione truly decides that maybe Pansy isn't so bad.

That maybe they _can_ be friends.

That fluttery feeling that confused her so much as a child never quite goes away. In fact, it only gets worse when Pansy's parents decide to move two houses down from Hermione—they still have their manor in the countryside (because apparently the Parkinsons are rich enough to own an actual _manor_ , Pansy tells her mulishly, but her parents think it's a good idea to have her socialize with more _normal_ people.

But that's how Pansy ends up in Hermione's school for the next eight years, where she somehow takes over as most popular girl—somehow, because while Pansy does seem to pay a lot of attention to her appearance, she's not exactly the kind of person most would call pretty.

Hermione spends weeks sure that Pansy will join her tormentors—all the girls who find her too nerdy or mock her too long teeth—but when Pansy just keeps sitting next to her in class and for lunch, Hermione gets the message: Pansy's her friend now, and she's sticking to that commitment.

When she asks why, Pansy looks at her like she's mad.

"You're pretty much the only girl worth knowing here—you're the only one who actually wants to do something with your life and who's probably clever enough to make her plans come through. I plan to be there for that," she says. "Even if you could be more sociable," she adds with a sigh, eyes flicking up and down Hermione's face.

"I-Thanks," Hermione replies, and that's the first time her heart flutters at something Pansy tells her.

It is not the last.

It doesn't occur to Hermione until she's almost sixteen that her feelings for Pansy aren't entirely platonic. She knows, of course, that she doesn't have to be straight and find only boys attractive, the way every other girl in her school seems to, but it's more of an intellectual knowledge than a personal, visceral one.

That changes when she catches sight of Pansy being kissed by Draco Malfoy in front of her locker, looking like she's thoroughly enjoying herself. Something twists painfully in her chest and she feels like her breath's been knocked out of her.

It feels like she stands there for hours, gaping, before Pansy and the smugly smirking blond boy spring apart.

"Hermione!" Pansy greets. The bright smile she reserves for Hermione still plays automatically on her lips, and Hermione is ridiculously glad that this, at least, hasn't changed.

"You remember Draco, of course," Pansy continues, unaware of Hermione's inner turmoil.

"Yes," Hermione manages to reply somehow. "I do. It's nice to see you again," she lies, smiling thinly.

"Nice to see you, too," Draco replies, and Hermione knows he's about as honest about that as she was.

Luckily, they're saved from any more of that awkward situation by the bell ringing, signaling that class is about to begin.

"I'll see you tonight, then?" Draco asks after one last parting kiss, ignoring Hermione entirely.

"Of course," Pansy replies, smiling simperingly.

Hermione waits until Draco's nowhere to be seen to grill her friend, even if by then they're already in class and getting out their books.

"What was that?" she hisses. "Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?"

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Oh, we're not dating. We're just… fooling around, you could say."

"But why?" Hermione replies, aghast.

"It's fun," Pansy shrugs. She looks at Hermione in concern as the teacher starts calling out names. "Are you alright? You've been weird today."

"Me, _weird_?" Hermione fakes a laugh, sending Pansy her best incredulous look as her heart pounds in her chest. "I'm fine, everything's fine."

Pansy doesn't look convinced, but now the lesson is starting, so she just sends Hermione one last dubious look before focusing on the exercise their teacher wants them to correct.

Hermione breathes more easily now that Pansy's attention isn't on her anymore, but the quiet focus of the class means that when her eyes drift to Pansy's face, she finds herself taking in features she hadn't really paid attention to before.

At least, not in this way. Because now, in the flickering white light of their classroom, Hermione thinks she can see why Draco Malfoy chose to kiss Pansy: her lips look very soft and inviting, and Hermione knows that her friend uses a peach-flavored gloss that makes her lips shine just a little.

It makes Hermione wonder what it'd taste like against her own lips.

It is a sweet kind of torture, to find that you're in love with your best friend. Every touch starts to mean more, every look becomes one of longing—every instant you spend together is suddenly steeped in a 'what if' atmosphere that makes Hermione's heart skip a beat.

Draco and Pansy break off whatever it was that they had after less than six months, and Hermione heaves a deep sigh of relief.

She's also terribly glad that Pansy is rather indifferent about it, because she's not sure how she'd have handled comforting her friend about a relationship she's glad ended.

And sometimes now, Pansy looks at her differently. Her dark eyes are charged with an intensity that Hermione would bet anything hadn't been there before, and she thinks she caught Pansy' eyes flickering to her lips more than once.

it makes her feel brave, makes her feel daring—makes her feel like maybe, she's not the only one to have these feelings twisting at her lungs, stealing her breath whenever the other smiles.

It doesn't make it easy, to actually make a move, but it does make it _easier_.

Easier to, one day, simply turn around and kiss Pansy's lips instead of her cheek, to slide her hands through hair that is as soft as she thought it would be.

When they part, Hermione slightly out of breath and Pansy a little disheveled; Pansy stares at her like she's something extraordinary.

"So, does that mean you like me, then?" she asks, the teasing hilt of her voice betrayed by how pink her cheeks still are.

Instead of answering immediately, Hermione kisses her again. She probably could do it forever.

"What do you think?" Hermione snorts, too amused to be offended by Pansy's barely veiled sarcasm.

Pansy smirks. It looks unfairly attractive on her. "I think you'd better come and show me again how much you like me—so I can, you know, be properly convinced."

Hermione snorts again, but her lips pull up into a giddy smile helplessly, and she leans forward again.

Their third kiss—and all the ones that follow—is just as good as their first.


End file.
